A Lady of His Own
Page 17
When he waved her to sit, she did. He took the chair opposite.
“I’ve seen Culver. He’ll do all that’s necessary, but the crux of the matter—the reason behind Gimby’s death—is the subject of my investigation, so beyond managing the formalities, Culver won’t be further involved.”
Charles locked gazes with Penny. “I’ve sent a messenger to London with a report of Gimby’s death and a request that the possibility of the traffic through here being incoming rather than outgoing be thoroughly checked.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. “You don’t believe it was.”
“I don’t at this stage know what to believe. I’ve been in this business too long to jump to conclusions that may not prove warranted.”
One fine brow arched, but she made no reply. Her face was a calm mask; he could read nothing in it, certainly nothing about how she felt about last night. “Have you reconsidered your decision to return to Wallingham?”
She shook her head; her lips set in a determined line. “It’s my family that’s involved. Even Nicholas is a relative, albeit distant. It’s only right I do all I can…” She gestured and let her words trail away.
“Uncovering the truth is my mission, my job, not yours.” He kept his tone even, all aggressive instinct harnessed.
“Indeed, but I consider it obligatory that I do all I can to assist, and that means returning to Wallingham and watching Nicholas.”
He wasn’t going to sway her; he hadn’t thought he would, but had felt compelled to try. If anything, the night seemed to have hardened her resolve.
So be it.
“Very well. I’ll ride over with you. But before we go, tell me more of Nicholas. Does he have servants with him? Anyone who might be an accomplice?”
“No, he brought no one. He drove himself down.”
“Do you know anything about his life over the last decade? How long has he been at the Foreign Office?”
“I got the impression he’d started there quite young—he’s thirty-one now. Elaine spoke of him as following in his father’s footsteps—she made it sound like that had always been the case.”
He nodded. He’d asked Dalziel for a complete report on Nicholas, but hadn’t yet received it. After seeing the marks on Gimby’s body, he was looking for some indication that Nicholas had the necessary qualifications to inflict such finely honed damage. It wasn’t a skill acquired at Oxford, nor yet at the Foreign Office. So where, and when, had Nicholas, if it was he, learned the finer points of brutal interrogation?
With an inward sigh, he rose and waved her to the door. As he followed her, he murmured, “I’m not happy about your going back.”
Without glancing around at him, she answered, “I know.”
He walked with her to the stables. His meetings with Nicholas thus far had been equivocal; while he could view him as cold-blooded, he hadn’t seen him as a killer, as the sort of man who could execute another. None knew better than he that such men didn’t conform to any particular style, yet if he’d had to guess…but he couldn’t afford to guess, not with Penny going back to Wallingham, back under the same roof as Nicholas.
He’d thought long and hard about summoning his mother or Elaine back from London, but he knew all too well what would happen. The whole gaggle—his sisters, her half sisters, his sisters-in-law—would come jauntering home to see what was going on, ready to help. The prospect was horrifying.
Gimby’s death had confirmed beyond doubt that there was some treasonous scheme to be uncovered, one involving persons still alive. Indeed, the killer’s appearance only emphasized the necessity of bringing the whole to a rapid end, of exposing the scheme and cleaning the slate.
Penny returning to Wallingham was, unfortunately, the fastest way to that rapid end. He didn’t have to approve or like it, but there was plenty he could and intended to do to ease his mind.
Their horses were waiting; he lifted her to her saddle, noting as he subsequently swung up to Domino’s back that she no longer reacted so skittishly to his nearness—her senses still leapt, but she was once more growing accustomed to his touch. Well and good. Step by small step.
They rode across his fields, eschewing conversation and the lanes to jump the low hedges, then thunder over the turf. The wind off the Channel was fresh, faintly warm; it blew in their faces, ruffled their horses’ manes. After crossing the river, they followed the low escarpment, descending to the fields only when in sight of Wallingham Hall.
Riding into the stables, he dismounted and lifted Penny down, then watched as she told the stablemen and grooms that she was home to stay. They were patently glad she was back. He surmised Nicholas hadn’t won them over, something he did with a few well-placed queries and a joke. They grinned, bobbed their heads deferentially, but they remembered him well; he strolled to the house beside Penny, confident they would be his to command should the need arise.
“Was Nicholas’s mount in the stables?”
“His pair were there. He’s been riding Granville’s hacks—all of them were there, too.”
“So he’s at home. I wonder what he’s up to?”
Ransacking the library was the answer. After sweeping into the house and informing the housekeeper, Mrs. Figgs, and the butler, Norris, that she was home to stay, Penny, on being informed Lord Arbry was in the library, waved Norris away, crossed the hall to the library’s double doors, set them wide, and walked in.
“Ah! There you are, Nicholas.” She smiled at Nicholas, scrambling, faintly flushed, to his feet. He’d been sitting on the floor, clearly working his way through the large tomes on the shelf from which Penny had removed the book of maps. Various books on the locality lay open around him.
Recovering, Nicholas stepped forward, away from the books, which he ignored. “Penelope.” His gaze went past her to Charles, watching from the doorway; his expression drained. “Lostwithiel.”
“Arbry.” Charles returned Nicholas’s nod. Shutting the doors, he followed Penny into the room.
Nicholas looked from him to Penny, uncertain whom to address. He settled on Penny. “To what do I owe this visit?” He attempted to make the question jocularly light, but failed; it was patently clear he wished them elsewhere.
With a brilliant smile, Penny swung her heavy skirts about and sank gracefully into a chair before the fireplace. “I just came to tell you this isn’t a visit. Charles’s Cousin Emily’s sister has taken poorly, so Emily has gone north to be with her. She left this morning, so here I am”—she spread her arms—“returning to my ancestral home.”
Nicholas studied her, then frowned. “I thought…”
“That my residing here while you, too, are in residence is inappropriate?” Penny’s smile turned understanding. “Indeed, and with the Abbey so close, my second home, and with Cousin Emily there, it seemed wise not to give even the highest stickler cause to whisper. However.”
She looked at Charles; a faint smile curving her lips, she returned her gaze to Nicholas. “As Charles pointed out, residing under my ancestral roof with a distant relative is far more acceptable than residing under his roof with only him for company. That, even the least censorious would find difficult to countenance.”
They hadn’t discussed how to explain her return to Nicholas; Charles watched, more wryly amused than she could know as she airily, with quite spurious ingenuousness, informed Nicholas that sharing a roof with him was indisputably the lesser of two evils.
All he had to do to lend her story credence was to meet Nicholas’s eyes, and smile.
Nicholas considered his smile for only a second, then swallowed Penny’s story whole. Facing her, he manufactured a smile. “I see. Of course, in the circumstances, I’m happy to have you home again. Perhaps you could speak with Mrs. Figgs. She had a number of questions that I’m afraid I had no notion of. I’m sure she’ll be glad to have your hand on the tiller again.”
Penny rose. “Yes, of course. I’ll go and see her now, and I must change before luncheon.”
His gaze on the books, Nicholas hesitated, then said, “It was more by way of learning the local history.” He looked at Charles. “I understand there’s a tradition in these parts of preying on the French from the sea.”
Charles grinned, relaxed, unthreatening. “There’s the Fowey Gallants, of course—historical and contemporary. Have you come across them yet?”
“Only in the books.” Nicholas took the bait. “Are they still in existence?”
“I’ll leave you two to your discussions.” Penny picked up her trailing habit; already intent on furthering their quite different aims, the pair accorded her no more than vague nods as she turned away. Leaving the library, she inwardly shook her head. If Nicholas wasn’t careful, he’d soon be thinking the big bad wolf with the very sharp teeth was his very best friend.
She returned to the library an hour later, with luncheon shortly to be served. Garbed in a round gown of soft gray—perfect for the excursion she planned for later that afternoon—she walked in on a scene that had subtly altered.
It wasn’t just that Charles was now seated, elegantly relaxed in the chair before the fireplace, holding forth, or that Nicholas was leaning against the front edge of the library desk, hanging on Charles’s every word. No. Something had happened while she’d been out of the room. She knew it the instant they both looked at her.
Charles smiled, and a tingle ran from her crown to her heels, leaving all places between alert, on edge. Tensing. Slowly, employing to the full that ridiculous extreme of languid grace he possessed, he uncrossed his long legs and stood.
Nicholas looked from her to Charles and back again, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Ah…Charles explained your…understanding.”
She blinked. Managed not to parrot, Understanding?
“Mmm,” Charles purred, strolling toward her. His sensuality, not this time menacing so much as enveloping, was unrestrained, a tangible force, a current carried on thin air, reaching for her, wrapping about her. “Given you’re now fixed here, and he’ll therefore no doubt see us together, I didn’t want Arbry getting the wrong idea.”
His eyes had locked on hers; reading all that glittered in the deep dark blue, she saw not just satisfaction at the consummate mastery with which he’d exploited the situation, making Nicholas feel that he had no real interest in him, but also a devilish glint she’d seen often enough in the eyes of a wild and reckless youth. “I see.”
His long lips lifted; he smiled into her eyes. “I felt sure you would.”
Halting beside her, he reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips.
Eyes locked on hers, he kissed.
Damn, he was good. She was distantly aware that Nicholas was watching, yet was far more aware of the compulsion drawing her to Charles, weakening her resistance, making her wish to lean into him, to lift her face and offer her lips…the clearing of a throat behind her broke the spell.
“Luncheon is served, my lady, my lords.”
Thank heaven! She managed to half turn and acknowledge Norris. Charles lightly squeezed her fingers, then set her hand on his sleeve.
He turned her to the door, glancing back at Nicholas. “Shall we?”
Luncheon had been set out in the small dining parlor overlooking the back garden. Charles seated her at the round table, then took the chair on her left; Nicholas claimed the one on her right.
Under cover of the conversation—about horses, local industries, the local crops—the casual conversation any two landowners might exchange, she tried to imagine what “understanding” Charles had revealed to Nicholas.
The basic element was easy to guess, but just how far had he gone? Having glimpsed that glint in his eye, she was longing to get him alone and wring the truth from him. And most likely, knowing him, berate him after that. She spent most of the meal planning for that last.
In between, she watched Nicholas. Even though he was distracted by Charles’s glib facade, still wary yet not sure how wary he needed to be, there remained an essential reserve, a nervous watchfulness that didn’t bode well for a guilt-free conscience.
Was she sitting beside a murderer?
She lowered her gaze to Nicholas’s hands. Quite decent hands as men’s hands went, passably well manicured, yet they didn’t seem menacing.
Glancing to her left, she reflected that if she had to judge the murderer purely on the basis of hands, Charles would be her guess.
She’d seen Gimby’s body, still felt a chill as the vision swam into her mind. Yet she couldn’t seem to fix the revulsion she felt certain she would feel for whoever had slain Gimby on Nicholas.
Then again, as Charles had pointed out, an accomplice might have committed the actual deed, someone they didn’t yet know about.
She was making a mental note to check with Cook and Figgs to make sure there were no food or supplies mysteriously vanishing—she knew how easy it was to move about any big house at night—when the men finally laid down their napkins and stood.
Rising, too, she fixed a smile on her lips and extended her hand to Charles. “Thank you for seeing me home.”
Taking her hand, faintly smiling, he met her eyes. “I thought you wanted to go into Fowey?”
She stared into his dark blue eyes. How the devil had he known?
Smile deepening—she was quite sure he could read her mind at that moment—he went on, “I’ll drive you in.” His tone altered fractionally, enough for her to catch his warning. “You shouldn’t go wandering the town alone.”
Not only had he guessed where she was going, but why.
Nicholas cleared his throat. “Thank you, Lostwithiel—now Penelope is living here, I confess I’d feel happier if she had your escort.”
She turned to stare at Nicholas. Had he run mad? She was no pensioner of his that he need be concerned. She drew breath.
Charles pinched her fingers—hard.
She swung back to him, incensed, but he was nodding, urbanely, to Nicholas.“Indeed. We’ll be back long before dinner.”
“Good. Good. I must get back to the accounts. If you’ll excuse me?”
With a brief bow, Nicholas escaped.
Penny watched him depart; the instant he cleared the doorway she swung to face Charles—
“Not yet.” He turned her to the hall. “Get your cloak, and let’s get out of here.”
In the past, she’d been quite successful at bottling up the feelings he provoked; now…it was as if letting loose one set of feelings had weakened her ability to hold back any others. By the time she’d gone upstairs, fetched her cloak, descended to where he waited in the hall, nose in the air allowed him to swing the cloak over her shoulders, then take her arm and escort her outside, she was steaming.
“What in all Hades did you tell him?”
The question came out as a muted shriek.
Charles looked at her, his expression mild, unperturbed; he knew perfectly well why she was exercised but clearly believed himself on firm ground. “Just enough to smooth our way.”
“What?”
He looked ahead. “I told him we had an understanding of sorts. Recently developed and still developing, but with its roots buried in the dim distant past.”
She stopped dead. Stared, aghast and flabbergasted, at him. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
His clipped accents, the look in his eyes, warned her not to pursue that tack; he’d never breathed a word of their past to anyone, any more than she had.
She found her voice. “We have Lady Trescowthick’s party tonight. He’s invited. What happens when he mentions our ‘understanding’?”
He shook his head, caught her hand and drew her on. “I told him it’s a secret. So secret even our families have yet to hear of it.”
“And he believed you?�
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He glanced briefly at her. “What’s so strange about that?” Looking ahead, he went on, “I’ve recently returned from the wars to assume an inheritance and responsibilities I never thought would be mine. I accept I need to marry, but have little time for the marriage mart nor liking for chits with hay for wits, and here you are—a lady of my own class I’ve known for forever, and you’re still unmarried. Perfect.”
She didn’t like it, not one bit. Taking three quick strides, she got ahead of him and swung to face him, forcing him to halt.